


poisonous thorns at our sides

by rosegaarden



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mentions of Sexual Assault, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23560405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegaarden/pseuds/rosegaarden
Summary: Art/fic trade for my dearest friend amummy. Their Morgan and my GraysonMorgan battles with his demons, both literally and metaphorically
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	poisonous thorns at our sides

Morgan was warned, once, that taking a life meant carrying its weight for the rest of his life. It seemed cruel, even then, to tell a child that they must not only kill, but shoulder the burden of it until they die themselves, but his father was never a kind man to begin with. What more should he have expected?

For a child, it was easy to fall into childish stories of ghosts. Hauntings. The fact that there were whispers the Black manor was haunted certainly didn’t help his imagination. Of course, he learned quickly that was ridiculous - ghosts weren’t the thing to fear. Demons were.

And yet, now, he finally understands his father’s words. 

The sight of that _man_ above him is enough to make him reel. Perhaps the first kill is the one that stays with you. Follows you. More likely, it’s because of the circumstances of his death. Just the sight of his corpse rotting, sat on his chest, is enough to make Morgan sick to his stomach, and he finds that he can’t say anything. He cannot even so much as move. _Poison? A tranquilizer?_ How was that possible? Grayson should be protecting him. He should have stopped any intruder at the door.

His clothing, his armor, it offers no resistance. Those hands so cold and clammy and pale find its edges to slip beneath them and shift across his skin, thigh and chest and back, with his wrists held, and he can do _nothing_ but watch wide-eyed in fear at the corpse that sits upon his chest. This, which Morgan denied. This desire, that must be strong enough to pull the dead from its graves. His eyes are as empty and afraid as Morgan had left them as he stares down at him, mouth agape and wheezing in gasps for air, for one last lungful of life to cling to.

_Grayson…_

Why can’t he hear? Or perhaps he’s simply choosing to ignore him… the bastard. It would be just like him to sit aside and watch as Morgan suffers at the hands of his demons. To delight in his disgust and relish his cries. Had he watched in the beginning? Had he waited for Morgan to take matters into his own hands before stepping forward?

The thought is interrupted by one of those ghoulish hands trying to find its way below Morgan’s waistband. He can’t even part his mouth to scream. To protest. Anything but--

“My Lord?”

Morgan’s eyes only widen further at the sound of Grayson’s voice beside him. But his head won’t turn to look at him. Nothing in his body will fight against the weight on his chest.

The world goes black as Grayson slips a gloved hand over Morgan’s eyes. “My Lord, you’re still dreaming. Please try to focus on my voice until you wake” _Ah…_ Is that what it was? “I had heard you begin to hyperventilate and came as quickly as I could. Rest assured you’ve only been dreaming for a few seconds at most” _Impossible._ Wasn’t it? Surely it had been longer than that… He feels his fingertips twitch, earning a sound of approval from his butler, and slowly, far too slowly, the rest of his body remembers how to move, that it must move.

“... Get your hand off me”

“Of course, my Lord” Even the smug sound of his voice is a welcome relief in this moment. He can’t find it in himself to be annoyed when Grayson’s hand comes away to reveal the room lit by low candlelight. “Please do forgive me”

“Shut up. I don’t want your apology”

Morgan turns over, dragging his blanket up over his body tightly, tucking it under his feet and shifting it beneath his sides until he’s untouchable to the outside world. He hates how he feels like a child hiding from a monster under the bed. Grayson must think as much, because he chuckles softly into the night air. “Tell me how pathetic I look and I’ll stab your throat”

“There’s no need for such violence, my Lord. I have no intention”

“Liar”

“I cannot lie”

“Get out. I want to be alone”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Grayson is bowing at the waist, a hand over his heart and his head dipped down submissively. “Of course, my Lord” is his reply, as always, when Morgan snaps his frustrated orders and vents his anger towards him. Ever faithful. Ever--

Ever at his side.

Ever since that night. When Morgan’s first kill was still fresh on his hands, he had been there to protect him. And even now… Grayson could do nothing to protect Morgan from his own mind, and yet he tried, still. Morgan is no fool -- he knows that he is nothing more than a lamb being raised for slaughter, because he marches forward toward Grayson’s knife willingly. He knows, very well, that Grayson’s care is not for his well being, but for the fear of losing such a perfect meal. And even so...

“Grayson wait”

“My Lord…?” Grayson turns ever so slightly, the candlelight illuminating his profile. Sending his silhouette flickering and twisting in unnatural ways that should, should, be unsettling, but in this state, with memories threatening to break the surface he had held them beneath so long, it was a comforting sight.

No one could touch him.

No one would _ever_ touch him again without his permission.

“... Stay there” he orders. “Don’t move until sunrise”

There’s a long, dragging moment of silence before Grayson huffs an amused laugh. “Is that an order?”

“It is”

“Then of course, my Lord… I am at your command”


End file.
